Night and Day
by theRazorofOccam
Summary: A few years after Project Purity succeeds, the Brotherhood of the Capital Wasteland has flourished and established a zone of stability in the area. However, rumblings in the West of violent change and shifts in power in the Mojave Wasteland cause them to send the Lone Wanderer to investigate potential future threats.
1. The Sky Fell Down & What Can I Say?

Recoil pulsed throughout him at a steady pace as he methodically placed a railway spike through the skulls of a group of raiders. It was laughable at this point to dispatch raiders; he didn't even bother synchronizing with his Pipboy anymore. Of all the things in the Wasteland at large, raiders were the same everywhere. Mutated animals and settlements may vary from region to region, but the raiders remained the same. It occurred to him that they were the point of commonality in the Wasteland.

Given that fact, he supposed he was glad that dispatching them was so easy now – not that there were many things that didn't fall under that category anymore. It was a cruel twist of fate that he had started his life learning to heal and mend the human body but instead had become a force that dismantled it. In a way, Linus felt like his father would've been disappointed in him – in the end, he wasn't a healer or a scientist, putting his mind to use to further humanity. Instead, what he had become famous for was stumbling around the Capital Wasteland in search of his father, being in the right place at the wrong time, and somehow making it through relatively unscathed. And in the end, he'd still been too late to save his father, though it was some small consolation that he was able to carry out his grand plan – the Purification Project.

On the other hand, it wasn't like his father never used a gun – he was the one who first taught him how to use one, after all.

But the time for reminiscing was drawing to a close – his journey across the Wasteland was complete. Some time ago, the Capital Wasteland heard rumors of the rumblings of change in the Mojave. The reports, such as they were, were mixed. Some said the New California Republic in all its grandeur had finally pushed into a new region; others said that a slaver mob called the Legion had taken over the area. Then there were the rumors that said both of the groups had been beaten back and a new regime had been erected, as was beginning to be the case with the Capital Wasteland under the Brotherhood.

However, one point all agreed upon was that the central figure amongst it all was an individual known as the Courier. As someone who had also been bestowed a moniker, John knew that whoever this was was just a person like any other. Though to be fair, couriers in general were a hard bunch of people – to be known as _the C_ ourier among couriers, was an impressive feat.

Stopping to loot the bodies of the raiders, John scavenged, hoping to find some food or water on them. His pack was already full of things to trade or sell, and he preferred his Railway Rifle to any weapons the raiders had on them. It packed a punch most weapons didn't, and the parts and ammunition were generally easy to scavenge for, given that they weren't in high demand. Not that he didn't keep a sawed-off strapped to him and a combat knife should he ever need them.

His search didn't yield much, but it was better than nothing. So, pack heavier with two more bottles of irradiated water and a bag of stale chips, he prepared to carry on. Movement caught his eye, and he froze.

Peeking out from behind a stack of rubble was a straw cowboy hat, reminding John of Simms back home in Megaton and how the man had complained of a bad feeling about him leaving for the Mojave. Shaking off the thought, he raised his rifle up and took aim.

"Come out! I don't want to hurt you if you're not a raider, but I _will_ have to if I can't confirm."

Two hands slowly rose from behind the rubble, and a slender figure rose up. Turning around revealed blue eyes in a sea of freckles, with wisps of red hair coming out from under the hat.

"Easy, I've got no problem with the Brotherhood," came a drawl.

Not for the first time his armor had gotten mistaken for the Brotherhood. At some point in his travels, he'd stopped bothering to explain. But, as he had just entered into the outskirts of Mojave territory, it was probably time to set the story straight.

"I'm not Brotherhood. Not exactly, anyway," he admitted. The truth was a bit more complicated. While it was true that he wasn't technically a member, he may as well have been an honorary one with how closely he worked with them. But that was better kept quiet, and he may even need to ditch the armor later on – he couldn't afford to upset any power balances in a place that was hostile to the Brotherhood. For now though, he'd keep it on – parting with his precious medic power armor would be painful, no matter how temporary. The loudmouth onboard computer had been his only source of companionship other than Dogmeat for the duration of his trek.

"Well, that's good, I guess. Might want to ditch that armor though. Brotherhood got into a spat with the Courier a few weeks back. Didn't go so well for them," she said, bending down as John lowered his weapon so she could grab her own shotgun off of the ground.

 _'Well, damn. That doesn't bode well.'_

"What's this Courier have against the Brotherhood?"

"Hell if I know. Same problem she had with the NCR and the Legion, I guess. Damned psychopath."

"Two armies and the Brotherhood?" asked the Lone Wanderer. Maybe this Courier was more serious than he thought. "So the Mojave runs under her rule now?"

The redhead let out a grim chuckle. "Not hardly. That was House's game. Nothing _rules_ the Mojave anymore. Anything that tries goes up against Crazy herself."

John scowled inside the helmet. "Sounds like a glorified raider."

Calamity Jane made a thoughtful 'hmm.' "No, she's not quite like a Fiend. She leaves people alone for the most part. Until the try to run the place."

"Anarchist," he said plainly.

"Yep. So what's your story. Not many people run around with that armor on."

He eyed her for a few seconds before speaking. She didn't seem like she had any particular agenda – she may make a useful ally. Or a decent guide at the least. "I'm here from the Capital. Word that power had changed hands made it across the Wasteland. I came to make sure there wasn't going to be a push east."

Cowgirl cocked an eyebrow and gave him a skeptical smirk. "Uh huh. It's awfully far away to be worried about that. _Surely_ you're not here to pick up the pieces for the Brotherhood."

He shrugged. "The Capital's not organized enough to mobilize for an invasion. I came so we'd have time to set up a defense if the army in power wasn't satisfied with just taking the Mojave."

She seemed satisfied with his explanation. "Well, like I told you, she's not interested in lording over anyone. And I don't think she plans on leaving the Mojave."

"And the NCR and this Legion are just going to roll over now?"

A hard look came over the woman's face. "I don't know how much is left of the Legion and the NCR after the nukes."

 _That_ got his attention. "Nukes?"

"You haven't heard? The Courier disappeared about three or four months back. Not long after, two mushroom clouds appeared over NCR and Legion territory. Words is both capitols were hit. I don't even know if there is an NCR or Legion anymore."

"Why? How?" he sputtered, mind screaming about the loss of life. "Does she not realize that _that is exactly how the Wasteland was born?_ "

The look on the woman's face was one of bemusement. "She doesn't exactly seem like a long-term thinker. What's it matter to you? Don't fuck with her and she won't blow you up."

"The people. And the _fallout_. It's undoing all of that progress, all of that civilization."

"I don't think I'd call the Legion had 'civilization,'" she drawled. But she conceded his point with a nod when he began to clarify. "So. What's the plan now that you've know no one's planning a conquest of your corner of the Wasteland? Headin' back home?"

"On the word of one waster?" he shot back. "No, if the Courier really launched the nukes, I need to make sure there aren't more waiting to be lobbed at whomever she decides she doesn't like. If she's as mad as you say, she can't hold onto that kind of power. No one should anymore."

"An idealist, huh? So you're just going, what, disarm the things if there are any?"

He grinned under his helmet, remembering earlier times. "It's a hobby."

"Uh huh," she noted, eyebrows knitting. "And if she doesn't want to give up the location of her missiles? And if she does and you still don't trust her?"

"I don't want to kill anyone I don't have to. But I can't just let a psychopath have free reign to hurl nuclear missiles at anything she perceives as a threat."

The woman looked at him for a long time. "So, do you need a guide?"

/

She giggled, giddy in her moment as the figure in front her burst into flame as she hit him with a left cross. Shifting her weight to the opposite side, her right fist was a rocket and as it connected with its target. A warning beep sounded as her opponent exploded backward.

The other three figures that had converged on her also flew away. She grinned, peering down at the two who still seemed to have some life in them from above her lucky shades.

"Come on, boys," she teased in a sing-song voice. Her encouragement obviously hadn't motivated them enough, though, so she growled, "This is getting boring."

Her second bit of motivation seemed to evoke a more appropriate response. Or responses, rather. The Legionnaire on the right seemed renewed, vitalized in his crusade to kill her. His buddy on the left, unfortunately, turned out to be a disappointment, given that he had elected to flee the battle.

 _'Fight and Flight_ ,' she thought, giggling to herself. She chose to meet Fight head on, as he was obviously more fun than his counterpart. Flight could wait until they were finished.

He proved to be capable for a Praetorian, which was to say, of little skill compared to herself, but she took what she got these days. So after ducking his first right hook, jumping back to avoid his follow up, and weaving left to dodge his lunge, she twisted and slammed Two-Step into the side of his head and thus was Goodbye for Fight.

Flight hadn't actually gotten too far, and she was confused as to why he tried at all, given that his right leg was obviously injured. It was when he fell to the ground and brought up the fallen Vexillarius's sniper rifle that she understood.

 _'How…_ boring _,'_ she thought, humming to herself. _'Oh, well.'_

The shot rang out as she began to run toward the prone figure, and her torso jerked back, though not enough to slow her down by much. To her surprise, the assassin retained the frame of mind to get off another shot before she reached him. A quick hauling up, and a blow from the SS, and Flight was no more.

Glancing around to make sure no one had gotten back up, she huffed a sigh. The remnants of the Legion hadn't slowed in the months since she sent the missiles into Arizona. If nothing else, they seemed to have renewed their efforts to kill her, throwing themselves at her in a mad attempt to take her out with them. If the Courier didn't know how stupid their bravado made them, she'd almost have been insulted – if Caesar's army couldn't beat her, did they really think their singular assassin squads would do the job?

Toward the realm of the NCR, all was quiet. Yes Man had helped her to set up a reliable spy network that said that while the Bear was not obliterated, it was face down in the dirt, barely hanging on after the demise of its capitol. Since the explosion, even their spy networks and scouting efforts had been either dismantled or fallen apart due to lack of leadership. So long as they understood that her Mojave was Not Theirs, the Courier didn't really care whether the NCR struggled on or not.

Glancing down, she noticed that the two holes in her chest were healing up quite nicely so she took a brief survey of her surroundings and plotted out where the Strip would be – she had an appointment to keep. Schedules were miserable little things, but Yes Man got passive aggressive when she dodged his attention for more than a couple of months at a time. Besides, she had some people whose lives she wanted to liven up back in the Heart of the Mojave; her occasional companions were just too prone to the morose when left to themselves.

She'd imagined Veronica had heard about what she'd done to the Brotherhood. Sometimes her friends just didn't understand – some people had to go. It wasn't like the people she made go didn't give her reason – it was just no one was entitled to lord themselves over the Mojave. _Her_ Mojave. Her _home_. She tried to give the Brotherhood a chance. They generally kept to themselves, and they were like family to Veronica. And that meant they were kind of like family to her, albeit distant relatives whose names you couldn't even remember. But even family didn't have the right to lord over highways and constrict travelers-by in order to seize anything more complex than a toaster. It wasn't _free_. And her Mojave had to be free if that beautiful chaos she loved so much were to pervade its very atmosphere and flourish like it should. Like the Strip was – where fortunes could be up or down and everything was left to the whims of fate – just you against the odds. It was just that if the odds were ever stacked too highly one way or the other, that loose chaos was snuffed out.

So, once the Brotherhood thought that it could stack the deck against the Mojave unchecked, she threw herself against them. For Veronica, she'd offered them the chance to evict themselves, but their leader would have none of it. Thus, the Brotherhood Chapter of the Mojave was no more and one more poisonous faction was erased from her portion of the Wasteland. Score another point in favor of Entropy.

After an obscenely long amount of time walking, home was finally before her. Close anyway, the Courier had decided to stop by Freeside first, if only to put off her meeting with Yes Man. Not that her talks it the Mormon Fort would go over all that well. They, including Arcade, were still very prickly over the whole launching of nuclear missiles thing. She'd won them over. Mostly. But "intellectuals" tended to be a passive aggressive bunch. And then there was the "talk" she knew she'd have with Veronica. She'd understand. Eventually.

From the look of the hurricane of a woman coming her way, eventually may be a while yet. She decided to open up with a grin.

"Veronica!" she yelled, throwing her arms open wide. "It's been too long!

" _Alexis_ ," hissed the brunette, obviously trying not to make a scene. She was just wearing her robes, so she had probably just been tinkering with equipment in the Fort. "Out. _Now_."

The Courier turned as Veronica strode past her in order to leave the Fort. "Alexis? What happened to Allie? Hey – wait, I wanted to talk to Arcade too!"

The former Brotherhood member ignored her objections, obviously in no mood to entertain her comrade. The Courier glanced around and spied Arcade. Knowing the man had no love for the Brotherhood, despite his scruples with ethics, he just shrugged at her and headed toward a patient tent.

Sighing, she turned around and followed after Veronica. The woman led her to an alleyway and whirled on the Courier, one hand pinning her against the wall and the other slamming against the wall.

"You know, you really shouldn't do that without Pushy on. You don't heal up like I do. And you probably shouldn't stand this close to me either – the rads'll –"

"You killed them. They were my _family_ ," Veronica grated out through clenched teeth. "How could you? How could you even _think_ to do that without telling me?"

All humor faded from the Courier. "Did you really want to know, Veronica? You didn't want to be there."

"They might have listened to me! Move somewhere or stopped their attacks," said Veronica, so close the Courier could almost feel the fury and anguish the other woman was feeling.

"Listen to you like that bunch did that tried to kill you? You know the Brotherhood wasn't going to change, Veronica. They don't fight for freedom. They restrict it. The Mojave won't submit to anyone like that – not anymore."

"Not to anyone but _you_ ," she spat. "You talk about freedom and your chaos, but you destroy everything in your path. I should kill you. You just."

"Won't die?" offered the Courier.

Veronica's face twisted up in disgust. "We're through. No more 'adventures.' No more dragging me around by the arm for anything. Arcade and Raul and lot of other people may put up with your bullshit, but I'm done."

Veronica practically threw herself off of the wall with her hand and stalked off down the alleyway. The Courier briefly considered letting her leave on that sentiment. Veronica would come around. She'd _see_ , even if she didn't _understand_. But she and Arcade had oft complained about that particular approach she took – said it was self-centered. She personally just thought that that was how the world worked. But, if it would make them happy, she supposed she could oblige from time to time.

"Veronica," she said, racking her brain and watching her companion slow to a stop. She didn't turn around, but the fact that Veronica stopped at all let her know she still had an in. "The Bunker is still intact. How does the Brotherhood… Lay their dead to rest?"

"I can handle it," came the cold response.

"Veronica –"

"I've fought with you plenty enough to know what to expect."

"I can –"

"Goodbye, Alexis."

The Courier watched on as Santangelo left the alleyway. She doubted that Veronica would handle the Bunker very well. She'd make sure to have Arcade go with her. Veronica wouldn't like the company, but she'd have to get over it.

She sighed, knowing it'd all turn out eventually and mentally prepared herself to deal with Yes Man.


	2. America the BeautifulHouse I Live In

In which the Wanderer makes another friend? And the Courier enjoys a relaxing bath.

AN:

Apologies for the long wait. Life and my lack of planning has gotten in the way. Actually, a good 70% of this was written for a while, but I couldn't figure the direction the story was going to take. I'm still not completely sure, but now I know that I probably won't be using the DLC to move it forward, or at least not in a direct manner.

His guide, er – _Cass_ – was a good deal more friendly than most wastelanders he'd come across. John wondered if that was a trait of people in the Mojave. Hell, he'd had a home in Megaton for years now and the people there weren't this friendly.

 _'Well,'_ he thought, _'except for Moira.'_

Thinking of the mad researcher made him little homesick. The peppy woman had been a bright spot in an otherwise grim, frightening place when he'd first left the Vault. And her inquisitive nature and scientific knowledge had given him someone to talk shop with throughout the years while working on her research, even after the Wasteland Survival Guide had long been finished. He missed his friend. Unfortunately, he'd not see her for quite some time, so it was better to put the thought out of his mind for the time being.

"So, John, right? So tell me, John, who the hell sends one man and a damned dog all the way across the Wasteland to spy on an army?" came Cass's drawl.

"There were a couple of other people that volunteered, and some more that would've come had I asked. The ones that volunteered were needed where they were; the ones I could've asked were settled down."

"Got anything to do with that lion?"

John cocked an eyebrow she couldn't see. "Lion?"

"Yeah," she said, looking at him like he was an idiot. "That it a lion painted on your shoulder, right? What's with people and using animal mascots, anyway?"

John paused, remembering the partial insignia he had on his armor. He'd gotten rid of the full thing to avoid openly claiming membership on his journey but painted the lion back on out of sentimentality. "Oh. That. It's part of the unit I generally work with in the Brotherhood. And the squad leader's name is Lyons. With a 'y.'"

"But you're _not_ a member?"

"Technically I'm a Knight, but that's mostly just honorary. I'd come closer to Star Paladin, but there's only slot for that right now and it's taken. I'm not sure if I'd want full membership or not anyway. Too much red tape," he admitted. Sarah was always saying that should make things more official with the Brotherhood. For a while, there'd even been a rumor of Elder Lyons building in another Star Paladin position, but his current mission put that on hold. Besides, at least half of it was politics. As good of a person as Elder Lyons was, the man was a shrewd leader – he knew that having the 'Lone Wanderer' closer to them would only legitimize them further in the Capital.

"Wow. They really just hand out membership to any wastelander with a rusty rifle that thinks he can shoot?" cracked the cowgirl.

John ignored the ribbing. "Yeah, they recruit all the time. Even more now than they did when I first met them."

"Huh. Our bunch here would've sooner played catch with a mini nuke than do that. Mostly just stuck to snatching up any sort of tech and disappearing to wherever the hell they came from."

"There was actually a splinter faction back home that was about the same way. Maybe they were right when they said Lyons was the one who had really gone rogue," he said, mostly to himself.

"Sure," commented his companion, obviously disinterested by the Capital Wasteland's political landscape, as she took what must have been her tenth swig of whiskey in the past hour.

John was thankful for the privacy of his helmet. He doubted the redhead would've appreciated the judging look he was casting her at the moment. He'd only been with the woman for a few hours at best, but she'd put away about as much as he had drunk during the entirety of his life in the Wasteland. Granted, after his one and only stay at Dukov's 'pad', he'd puked up so much of the stuff that he'd never wanted to see it again. How the woman was even standing, he didn't know. John cringed for her liver.

"Let 'em eat lead!" cried out a voice.

" _What the shit?_ " cursed Cass, whipping around to see what had happened.

 _'Damn,'_ thought John. _'Only been with somebody for a few hours, and I've already gotten sloppy.'_

Unshouldering his rifle he warned Cass, "It's my armor. Something's nearby."

Taking note of Dogmeat, who seemed to have found the source of the danger, he spotted four supermutants down the hill the were currently on top of. "Four supermutants. Looks like they're masters."

The downside of his armor was that unless he silenced it, it was loud enough to alert enemies too, and now was apparently one of these times. Syncing his VATS system, he aimed for heads of the two wielding assault rifles, leaving the ones rushing forward to his other companions.

Two precise shots left his two targets down. Dogmeat had gotten the attention of one of the masters and was, for the moment, nimbly avoiding its super sledge. Meanwhile, Cass was firing off shell after shell, but the mutant didn't really seem to be fazed. A quick shot to each arm from the Railway Rifle made the mutant jerk sideways either way and drop its sledge. Then a well-placed shot by Cass finished it off.

Turning to the last mutant, who had a frenzied Dogmeat hanging off its left leg, John placed two spikes through its head and watched as it fell to the ground.

"Everyone alright?," inquired John, replacing the spikes he had fired.

Dogmeat yipped an affirmative while Cass just nodded, staring wide-eyed at him and his dog. It occurred to him that not everyone not everyone in the Wasteland was used to casually dispatching super mutants. It had been a long time since he had thought anything of running up against them, and most of the people he associated with back home had much the same mindset. Well, those whose life goal didn't revolve around wiping them out. He may have been the same way if it weren't for Fawkes.

After moving on, it wasn't much longer until the pair happened upon a makeshift camp put together with empty trailers and buses.

"NCR outpost, by the looks of it. I remember some of them talking about one they had out here. It'll make for a good camp; in the morning we can head out to Goodsprings and pick up some supplies," informed Cass.

John nodded his assent. Rounding to his furry companion he commanded, "Dogmeat – search."

His dog trotted off around to check the site for anyone who may have holed up in the campsite.

"Smart dog," commented Cass, eyeing the dog as he disappeared into one of the trailers.

"Wouldn't be alive without him," agreed John, heading off in the opposite direction of Dogmeat to check the other half of the site.

About halfway through his search, Dogmeat came bounding up to him with a knapsack hanging out of his mouth. Taking the bag out the dog's mouth and patting him on his head, John rummaged through the bag. Inside he found a 10mm pistol, some 10mm clips, .308 rounds, a change of clothes, dried meat, water, and a couple of stimpacks.

Looking back to Dogmeat, he held the bag up and the dog lead him to the trailer where he'd found the it. There was a snuffed out fire that looked like it had been there the night before right outside of the trailer and a thoroughly worn sleeping bag inside of it toward the back.

Cass had wandered up at that point to see what had caught his attention. "Someone already make camp here?"

"Looks like it," he replied, tossing her the pack and jerking a thumb to the ashes on the ground.

The report of a high-powered rifle registered just as John's head jerked around, sending his entire body spinning toward the ground. From his vantage point on the dirt, he could make out Cass diving into the trailer and Dogmeat whirling around, growling.

The back of his head felt like his someone had taken a hammer to it. He gathered his thoughts enough to mutter out a command Dogmeat to hide and pushed off of the ground, reaching for his rifle. The tracker on the Pip-Boy indicated the general direction of his attacker, directing him to the top of a nearby hill. It was fairly far off, and he took another round to the shoulder before he zeroed in on the man. The VATS system indicated that he didn't have much of a chance to hit the figure from this far off, but he lined up the shot anyway and fired off three spikes. The first two went wide, but the third hit home.

The assailant fell backward from his crouched position so John used the opportunity to advance and get a better shot, firing a few more times to keep the pressure on. Another shot seemed to get lucky, because when he was close enough to clearly see his attacker, the man had been pinned to the ground. Still, all the same, he had pulled out a 10mm and emptied a full clip at John on his way over. Fortunately, power armor made the danger from such small caliber fire negligible. He'd almost have to be comatose to succumb to a 10mm; hell, when he'd had his t-51b, he was damn near invincible.

Kicking away the man's pistol from his hand and putting a boot on his chest, he looked down curiously. "Let's have a talk."

* * *

"We need to have a talk, Courier Six," stated the Talking Tin Tyrant.

The Courier simply stared back at Yes Man, wondering why she hadn't blown it and the rest of the securitrons to tiny pieces and melted them down into something useful. Maybe an army of robodogs instead. Sighing, she came out of her fantasy. Though she had considered destroying them before, the securitrons did the invaluable service of preventing the powerful clans on the Strip from seizing power the way House had and the way Benny had tried to before her. And for all his nagging, Yes Man ensured that they applied only the pressure needed – no more, no less.

"What's up, my adorable little Metal Man?" singsonged the Courier. The more she annoyed him, the faster he'd let her go. But the minute she showed weakness, he'd have her here all day with a mile long list of things to attend to.

"May I inquire if the same stroke of genius that led you to the bombing of the NCR and subsequent severe cutting of profit and traffic through the Strip was the same stroke that led you to destroy our chapter of the Brotherhood?" asked the talking machine, his cheerful tone matching her own.

"They're gone the same reason the NCR had to go. And before you say anything about, should any Brotherhood members outside of this chapter come to the Mojave to retaliate because they get wind of it, they'll go the same way," she paused. "After I _politely suggest_ that their militant presence isn't needed, of course."

"Of course," parroted Yes Man, not sarcastic at all. "Well, in absence of their presence on the roads, we will need another presence there in order to keep travel safe and the Strip functioning to capacity. I've a list of potential contracts and possible parties drawn up on my clipboard for you to consider. Furthermore, Swank at the Tops has been moving in on trade deals outside of the Strip, as well as territory both inside the Strip and in Freeside. You'll either need to deem him as an official lieutenant or reign in the Tops in. Third –"

"Yes Man?" asked a long-suffering Courier.

"Yes?"

"I assume everything's on the clipboard?" she sighed. "If you'll hand it over, I'll take care of this week's 'agenda.'"

She imagined the damn securiton giving her a smug smile as it gave her an affirmation and handed over the clipboard. "Further details, should madness strike and cause you to seek out an _intelligent_ solution, are on the disks to be loaded onto your personal terminal, as always.

She bared her teeth in a false smile and snatched the clipboard away. "Thank you so much, my _assistant._ "

Yes Man whirred and turned around to leave, probably to bask in his victory like the smug snake he was. She stared at the thing's back, clenching her fists, power gauntlets thirsting for prey. Willing herself to look away, the Courier headed left for her presidential suite. Nothing soothed her after encountering Yes Man like a warm bath. Maybe after she'd go have some fun at Freeside. It was never as exciting as it was before the Hoover Dam, but she owed the King a visit, as well as the Atomic Wrangler. In meantime, maybe she'd drop the clipboard in the bath and clear up her schedule.

ED-E ambushed her before she got to the elevator. On her little floating buddy was tacked a note. Scowling, she removed the vandalism from her robot companion and gave it a read, and immediately wished she hadn't. It seemed that the Swank required her immediate, undivided attention concerning a roaming group of unidentified soldiers that had been picking off the Tops' supply lines out of the Strip. Containing the urge to put a power fist through the wall, Courier Six decided that Swank would have to wait. Yes, her getting a bath would be something that would be good for the health of both of them. Her mental state and his physical well-being – so few people actually _enjoyed_ a face full of Sunshine. Fewer _had_ a face after a face full of Two-Step.

Sending ED-E back on his patrol route, she caught the elevator up to her suite and was greeted by her overgrown robo-puppy, quite possibly the only thing in the Wasteland that could knock her on her ass. She stayed that way for a while, getting an onslaught of Rex kisses before she finally decided that she'd had enough dog slobber for the time being.

Walking to her room, she took off Sunshine, being careful to mind the heat, lest she melt the flesh off her bones. After that, she took Two-Step Goodbye off of her other hand and put it down next to the other gauntlet. Looking over to her desk to make sure the old Pipboy was still there, she then headed out the room, peeling herself out of the '21' duster on the way to the bath, leaving a trail of clothes behind her.

Once in the tub, basking in the glorious warmth of the (now, cloudy brown) water, she flexed her hands, looking at both of them. She really should go by and ask Farkas about extended power fist usage. Not that it was a large concern, given her…unique condition. Which was actually the real reason she should go by and see Farkas. But life was too short to deal with bothersome things like that – there were people to fight, Wastelands to protect, fun to be had.

Pushing that aside, she wondered to herself how things were with the Omertas. They had been the most… _disagreeable_ group on the Strip when she'd brought down House. They had been decidedly quiet in the time since their own regime change enacted by the Courier. She was wondering if she should add them to her "to visit" list when she heard the elevator down the hall.

"Alexis?" came Arcade's voice.

"In the bath!" she yelled back. "What's up?"

The perpetually phlegmatic one of her companions ambled into the room. Modesty and personal space were things long discarded among her remaining companions. She'd cleansed them of such foolish notions long ago.

The man propped up on the wall next to the door frame. "Hail the conquering hero in her bath. Be sure to bottle your bathwater and sell your 'liquid righteousness.' Alternatively, you could market it as 'essence of genocide.'"

She ignored the jab. Despite his moral scruples, she and Arcade's ideology intersected on many points. Granted, when it came to acting on them, the same was rarely true. Arcade was much less prone to violence. Unless it was concerning the Legion, of course. "That sounds like it'd attract a bunch of perverts, though. Maybe I'll peddle it to the Omertas or the Atomic Wrangler – they get plenty of those types. It'd have to come with a disclaimer though – 'including extra radiation!'"

Arcade grunted in response, obviously not overly eager to discuss her run in with the Brotherhood. "Veronica's leaving in two days. Let me guess, you wanted me to accompany her?"

' _Hmm… Smells like a catch,_ " thought the Courier. "That'd be lovely, Arcade. Now, where's that other shoe?"

"Julie's been having problems with her supply lines. Seems like more than your average problems with raiders. More organized than that. I can mark where on a map."

She hummed to herself. "Y'know. Swank sent a note about that. Want to come with and see if they're the same ones?"

"If you set me up with the supplies to go with Veronica, sure. Not everyone can just get that stuff on short notice."

She shrugged. "Sure. Scribble a list of what you need while I get scrubbed up. The water's starting to get cold anyway."

After she finished up her bath, the Courier stalked down the hall to her room, reaching down to pick up her coat on the way. While she got into some clean clothes and donned the '21' coat again, she grabbed some shells to reload Two-Step.

Arcade walked in while she was loading it up and handed her his list. "I put some extras in there for burial or cremation or whatever she'll need for the bunker. Looks like Two-Step needs new paint job."

"Yeah," she admitted. "I should probably get someone to take a look at Sunshine too while I'm settled for a bit."

Arcade shook his head. He'd never understood her habit of nicknaming her weapons. Boring bastard. "You know you could probably sell that Pipboy for good money."

She shook her head vigorously. "Hello no! That'd be like selling Rex! Or ED-E. Or you. The Pip's my buddy. We've been through a lot together."

Arcade gave her a long, hard stare. "You know, Alexis. Sometimes I can't tell if you're actually insane or really eccentric. Either way, you really should lose those rads and get around to seeing a doctor. If not for your condition, then for that bullet you took to the head. I think one of the two may be _impairing_ your mental health."

She shook her head again. She did that a lot around Arcade. "Nah, Doc Mitchell patched me up just fine. And besides, I like being all glowy. And invincible."

Arcade rolled his eyes behind his glasses as she slipped her gauntlets on. "Well, anyway, let's go pay Swank a visit."

"Lead on," came Arcade's wry response.

*****************************************

AN:

Well, that's it; I hope you enjoyed it! I've actually only played some of New Vegas, so a lot will come from Tropes or the Wiki, but it flows better to have the Wanderer travel to the Mojave than the Courier to the Wanderer, especially considering the events and setting of F4. I can't promise I'll change anything because like I said, I have a hard enough time coming up with a direction. But I'll at least try to stick to "canon" (as much as there can be canon in an RPG) as much as I can should anyone find any flaws in my writing concerning such things. Feel free to leave your thoughts in a comment. Thanks for reading! :) 


	3. Young at Heart & Take a Chance

"You sure it's okay to leave that guy tied up alone?"

John ignored the question for a moment; he was busy lining up his shot. The unique report of his railway rifle sounded, and the last of those gigantic flying things dropped. What had Cass called them? Cazadores? Whatever they were, he was glad they were only in the Mojave. Deathclaws were bad enough as it was.

"He isn't alone," John replied flatly. "Dogmeat has an eye on him."

"Your dog's impressive, but that guy said he was an NCR sniper. If he's from the unit he said he was, then you probably shouldn't take him lightly."

John considered her words, but the man's performance when he'd had the drop on John and Cass hadn't really impressed him. Granted, this Boone may prove more dangerous now that he knew what he was up against, but John didn't really like the idea of dragging along a captive. Besides, he'd trussed him up fairly well, and while it was true Dogmeat was a dog, he was also a dog who had weathered a trip across the American Wasteland. If nothing else, John had long since learned to trust those who travelled with him, canine or not.

"The alternative was killing him, and if he's telling the truth, I'd rather not."

"I guess," relented the cowgirl. "But I still don't like the idea that we may have a pissed off NCR soldier to our flank and a group of his buddies ahead of us."

He nodded. Paranoia was a healthy thing for a wastelander to have; foolhardiness and delusions of invincibility got people killed. It was good to have another person accompany him again – sometimes he feared he was becoming more and more prone to not considering the odds. "We'll be careful. I'm not looking for a fight, and if Boone was right, maybe we'll have a chance to show we're on their side if the legionnaires really do show up."

His traveling companion opted to down a swig of whiskey instead of responding to his reasoning. Not that he could blame her; it wasn't as if she were wearing power armor that dolled out Med X like candy. Nevertheless, the woman seemed reliable in a firefight. She was no Sarah Lyons or even a Reilly, but Cass seemed to be able to hold her own and keep her wits about her.

They were nearing the point on the map where Boone said his group had made camp. His story was that he had left to do some scouting when he picked up the trail of a legionnaire party that was apparently returning to a bigger group that was geared up to attack Boone's own group.

"So what are we gonna do when we get there?" Cass wondered aloud. "Talk it out?"

"Preferably," replied John through the helmet. "I like to avoid conflict where I can."

Cass snorted in a rather unbecoming manner. "For someone who feels that way, you sure seem comfortable with enough with it. Not to mention outfitted for it better than anything short of a bona fide Ranger squad."

John's mouth set into a thin, grim line. "I did say 'when I can.'"

That seemed to settle things enough for Cass. The woman, for all her cavalier disposition seemed to suggest otherwise, was actually quite astute when it came to sensing when a subject was delicate. He was thankful for that – getting accustomed to prolonged human interaction once again was a slow going process. And his thoughts and feelings on the subject of violence were more complex and personal than that of most wastelanders, who had grown up around it. He'd often wondered if that was why his father had left him behind – perhaps his old man had known that he wasn't geared to coping with it on a psychological level. The Vault had left him sheltered in more ways than one, even for all the advantages it had given him.

His eye picked up movement to his right. Taking care not to be obvious about, he signaled to Cass to be on her guard. The woman gave little indication that she had heard him other than a slight tensing of her shoulders and her gait. John briefly wondered about how she sharpened herself in the Wasteland before catching more movement to the left. For now, the group seemed to keep a watchful eye on them, though they were certainly making tactical placements in order to surround them.

John let them keep their sense of security. Challenging their move right now would paint him as a threat in their eyes, something he had taken pains to avoid by leaving his power armor behind. He was reluctant to do so, but Cass backed Boone's story about conflict between the NCR and the Brotherhood so he'd opted to rely instead upon his secondary suit of armor, which generally was better suited for the opposite approach one took whilst in power armor. Unfortunately, that approach was stealth, not the diplomacy he was about to attempt.

Eventually, John and Cass got close enough to see five figures. While three approached, two hung back, keeping their rifles trained on other pair. John, for his part, left his rifle slung across his back, which was clanking noisily against the sawed-off at the small of his back. Cass's shotgun was cradled in her arms, pointed downward.

Once the distance between the two groups narrowed to about thirty or forty feet, one of the soldiers spoke. "No further, please. Identify yourselves."

"Travellers-by," said John behind his helmet. "But we came upon a comrade of yours – he said his name was Craig Boone."

The man's suspicion was evident, despite the mask that obscured his face. "What do you know about Boone?"

"There was a misunderstanding. He fired on us, assuming we were hostiles after stumbling into his campsite. Afterward, I disarmed him – he's tied up under guard back there."

"I'm to believe you disarmed an NCR sniper who had the drop on you? And Boone wouldn't have just given up this location unless there was duress."

John elected to ignore the first line of conversation. "He wanted us to pass on word of something bigger – said that he found the group of legionnaires you've been tracking."

"And that warranted him giving up our main camp to some stranger that disarmed him?"

"He also mentioned that their main group was larger than you thought – only about twenty bodies shy of a Centuriae. And that they were only ten to fifteen miles northwest of this location when he saw them last. He expects they'll attack within the day."

The man across from John grunted. "How far off is Boone's campsite?"

"He said it used to be Station Bravo."

"And you said he was under guar—"

Before the soldier could get the question out, a rifle report sounded through the air. Whirling to the right, John made out one of the men he'd seen earlier, who was kneeling down, firing at something beyond the hill he was atop, yelling about a group of hostiles.

"Shit. Everyone, get in range and return fire!" ordered masked soldier. "You two – assist!"

John turned to Cass. "Hang back, cover them. Pick off anyone that gets within range of your shotgun. I'll be back shortly."

Before Cass could spit out the question on her lips, John had already activated the stealth field of his suit. Making his way around the hill, a handful of troops clad in some of the strangest armor he'd ever seen were scrambling to mount an attack on the soldiers John had been chatting with.

Two were hanging back, covering their comrades with long range rifles while the rest advanced, carrying machetes, power fists, or submachine guns. Positioning so that he was flanking them, John lined up shot in VATS, dispatching two submachine gun wielders and one with a rusty machete. While the majority continued their advancement, two took notice and wheeled around to find their unseen attacker.

John took care to take out the one with the rifle in a feathered helmet first and turned to take out the second attacker, only to hear the sad click of an empty rifle. As the attacker advanced, brandishing a power first, John slung his rifle over his shoulder with his left hand while reaching behind his back for his shotgun with the other. Stepping right, he avoided the legionnaire, using the stealth field to his advantage to mask his movement. A shot to the leg disabled his attacker long enough to line up the kill shot.

He looked up in time to see the last of the other legionnaires fall. The other bodies led to a total of eight, and walking back to Boone's comrades, he saw that they had taken two losses of their own, in addition to two injured. After deactivating the stealth field, he regrouped with the rest of soldiers.

Ignoring Cass's grumbling about his disappearance, John approached the soldier he had been speaking to earlier, who was busy dolling out orders to his subordinates, trying to make sure the wounded were tended to and get his troops in line.

"Interesting armor you have there. You'll have to tell me where you got it if sometime," the solider said. "Looks like Boone will have to wait. We need to get back to the main camp, in case of further attacks. If you're up for it, we could use the help. If you'd rather take your chances elsewhere, at least send Boone this way."

John mulled over his decisions, weighing the consequences and benefits of all the options. Cutting losses would be the easiest thing to do – he'd be free to decide what to do with his prisoner while the rest of his group was preoccupied with another threat. It'd also sidestep a possibly entangling alliance in a world where alliances alone were likely to get one shot.

On the other hand, assisting would give him some leverage to work with in the area. And even if this faction was weakened, it'd give a possible ally if whoever was behind the bombs was too dangerous to allow to continue operating.

He made the decision and turned to Cass. "Go set Boone loose. Bring him and Dogmeat back here. I'll help them out until then."

Cass opened her mouth like she was about to object but clamped it back closed before nodding and turning to leave. John looked back at the group of soldiers leaving and jogged over to catch up with the man he'd been talking to.

* * *

"Swanky! My favorite pit boss!"

The polished swagger of the leader of Chairmen cleared the crowded floor of The Tops as effectively as any hulking crony with a gun. His suit was a sharp as ever – prewar, but immaculate as they came, without a speck of grime tarnishing it. His hair was even more pristine than the suit – not a strand out of place, not a dull patch amidst its shine. And the only thing shinier than Swank's hair was his smile, which the Courier noticed were rather conspicuously hiding away instead of captivating crowds of awestruck admirers.

"Just the boss, kid," the man corrected, striding along past her and gesturing for her to follow. "But you know that; you're why I'm in the big chair, after all. But if I can't sit there if those raider types are hitting me where it hurts, can I? I was thinking maybe you could do The Tops a favor, pay those guys a visit and do your thing."

The Courier kept pace with the immaculate man as they moved through the floor past the plinking and whirring slot machines and the hapless hopefuls who were sitting at them, pumping them full of tokens and waiting for a big payout in caps that they surely weren't lucky enough to get.

To her right, she saw Arcade side-eyeing her. He was probably trying to guess at what the next move would be, what would be best for her or for Swank or for the Strip. Of course, Arcade also had the Followers' interests in mind so the doctor would definitely be in favor of lending assistance. Courier Six, on the other hand, had always wanted to see what Swank looked like when he wasn't so put together, when he had something to sweat about. It wasn't that she didn't like Swank, but there was something about dirtying up something pretty and clean, just to see what it was like when the orderliness that defined it was stressed and right at its breaking point.

"Well, how about it?" asked Swank, breaking the Courier out of her fantasy. "We'll make it worth your effort. A little extra to grease your wheels."

Courier Six almost sighed in disappointment. Not at Swank's offer, though she was a little surprised the man didn't know her better by now, but because she'd have to let him have his way this time. It was inconvenient to have more than one of her companions too upset with her at a time. If she gave Swank a hard time here, it'd mean giving the Followers a hard time as well, and that would no doubt piss off Arcade.

"Sure thing, Swanky!" announced the Courier as she gave the man a light punch on the shoulder. "Just help Arcade get some stuff for his little vacation, and maybe float some aid to the Followers while I go splatter some of your troublemakers. Apparently, they've been having some buddies leaching off their lines too."

"Sure thing, kid. Just have your guy give my guy the list, and he'll fix the good doctor up with whatever he needs," said the casino boss, jerking a thumb at his number two overseeing the blackjack tables. "You have the Followers send one their people here with another list, and I'll see what The Tops can do for them while you handle the big stuff."

The leader of The Tops family walked on, no doubt to conduct things of High Importance, leaving the Courier and her companion alone. The two branched off from their path to make their way over to the number two, who was busy talking down a very unhappy individual who seemed to be having some trouble with the cards today.

"So, are you taking anybody with you on this one?" asked Arcade as they waited for Swank's man to finish his "conversation."

She laughed at the question. For something as minor as this? Why should she need help? "I might bring Rex. Been a while since he's stretched his legs in the Wasteland."

Arcade shook her his at her flippancy. The man was far too cautious, in her opinion. "Whatever you say, Alexis. Well, I think I can handle giving him the list. You can head out if you need too."

She pouted in response. "Sending me off already?"

The doctor rolled his eyes and waved her off. The Courier made her way out of The Tops, her reputation giving her an even wider berth than what Swank's polished look earned him. It was tempting to stop by and see what the Omertas were up to these days – no doubt they'd have their hands into to something intriguing and dirty. Unfortunately for her curiosity, there were too many other things on her agenda for the day.

A short stop to pick up Rex, and Courier Six was off to find the supply lines with her robo-puppy in tow. It wasn't a long walk to where the convoys would be ambushed. Rather, it wasn't for her. Distance was something of only limited importance when it came to someone who had been a courier in a past life.

It took a few hours of walking before there distinct little pops in the distance that bespoke gunfire made her smile. It seemed that she had found her long-awaited action.

Courier Six sprinted over the terrain toward the promise of excitement. She doubted that her fun would last very long – it was probably just pack of Legion troops that had wised up or maybe some NCR washouts that were snatching up easy prey. That, or maybe some random raiders.

The vantage point she had at the top proved her wrong in one go. The strangers attacking the caravan may have been raiders part of a group like the Vipers, but they weren't the generic brand. To some, raiders and tribals looked similar enough, but the Courier had encountered enough of the two to recognize the difference. Interestingly enough, some of the ones waylaying the caravan were toting automatic weapons and had surprisingly good aim.

She moved in to begin her assault. There were about fifteen in total – half of them with their backs turned to her and the other half on the opposite side of the caravan. Kidney shot one, kidney shot two, kidney shot three – three of her new friends down before the rest of them even noticed her. A club swinging in a downward arc toward the right side of her face was batted aside by Two Step, and she paid her dance partner back by burning through his jaw with the SS.

Three figures rushed forward and boxed her in. The one to her left fell in coordination with gunfire, but the other two were upon her, presumably preventing the guards from firing upon them. Courier Six lunged forward, plowing Two Step into the gut of one the incoming fighters. A pivot and the other one was in her face.

This one was a little faster than his other buddies so when aimed a punch at his face, he was already to one side of her fist, bringing a club into her side. The Courier stumbled to one side, winded from the blow.

A small grin cracked on her face despite the pain. It was always fun to find someone who could get the drop on her like that. A head smacked into her face, and she felt her nose crunch behind the force. She brought her heel down onto the side of her opponent's knee – he stumbled backward, slightly hunched over, and she sent a haymaker aimed at his head, driving the man into the ground.

When it was clear her newest buddy didn't have anymore surprises for her, the Courier turned her attention to the other the side of the caravan. There seemed to be fewer opponents in play, which was honestly a little disappointing.

She took a step forward and her knee gave out. When she dropped to the ground, her torso jerked as if a hammer had hit it. The familiar pain that bloomed in her knee and chest that was characteristic of that of gunshot wounds.

Courier Six staggered to her feet with a slight scowl playing across her features. Being kneecapped was always a little annoying – she liked her mobility. A backward glance revealed the source of her inconvenience. The opponent she downed a second before had a pulled a handgun. She sighed – this kind of thing really did happen too often. A quick walk over and a firm stomp put an end to her problem, however, and she then proceeded to go tend to the other little weeds on the opposite side of the caravan.

They didn't take overly long to deal with either, though she did get a poisoned spear through a calf. It wasn't like they were overly skilled – their ability to fight with melee weapons or hand-to-hand was only on par with a Legion assassin crew, and their skills with ranged weaponry, while better than chem-addled raiders, was hardly as good as that of an NCR squad. Still, they were more than enough for the average caravan guard.

It wasn't pure savagery that motivated the attacks because the supplies were always gone by the end of the other raids. Of course, corpses being generally useless for anything other than stench and disease, the supplies were still there following this particular excursion, but there were no other indicators of why they were targeting the caravans. As it turned out, minimal garments such as her new friends wore weren't exactly conducive to carrying much in the way of clues. The only other thing that really struck her were the tattoos they all had, and the way the clubs all seemed to be carved into a semblance of a horse, and that was of limited use, given that she cared little to nothing at all about the dull little tribals that floated outside of her patch of the wasteland.

Questioning what was left of caravan turned out to be no good either. Shaky, quivering voices that she couldn't stomach for long informed her that there had been a survivor from previous raids among their number but that he had been the first to fall in this particular attack. Other than that, they only carried with them whispers of rumors of violent specters that, while entertaining, were of little use to her.

In truth, the Courier wasn't a particularly good investigator. It was much wasn't that she was particularly inept, but sorting through clues and putting them all together in sequence was boring. Doing things was much more her style. Luckily, she had her trusty, rusty robo-dog to sniff out the trail. Rex took a few whiffs of the tribals and bounded off ahead of her. Not bothering to even so much as glance behind her, Courier Six took off in pursuit of her dog.


End file.
